


Easily, Naturally

by out_there



Series: Simple, Uncomplicated [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-29
Updated: 2008-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In some ways, Matt is a first.  The first time Mohinder's had to coax someone in bed, the first time he's found himself taking the lead, pressing for more.</i><br/>(Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/134475">Simple, Uncomplicated</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easily, Naturally

**Author's Note:**

> Big smooches to [](http://storydivagirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**storydivagirl**](http://storydivagirl.livejournal.com/) for betaing again and to [](http://celli.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://celli.livejournal.com/)**celli** for reassuring me the porn worked. All remaining errors are mine.

In some ways, Matt is a first.

It's the first time Mohinder's had to coax someone in bed, the first time he's found himself taking the lead, pressing for more. It's a slightly odd experience.

Mohinder assumed -- from the easy way Matt moved down the bed, from that sinfully talented mouth -- that Matt was experienced, that Matt was confident in these matters. He was clearly wrong. It's in the way Matt hesitates before kissing back, the way he freezes for a moment and shifts away slightly.

It's not that Matt doesn't like kissing -- at least, Mohinder doesn't think that's it -- it's just that he needs a moment to respond, a chance to judge the situation and make sure he's allowed to do this.

Mohinder has always valued patience but by nature, he's rash. He jumps into situations as soon as he grasps the theory behind them. Just as quickly, he has jumped into certain beds after evaluating his own attraction to the person.

Sex is something that should be discreet, that should be private, but he's never doubted his own desires. He's always believed that being lost in sensation, enjoying the moment -- the physical, the emotional and the endorphins caused by both -- is the point of sex and the only real purpose. It's a very new experience to sleep with someone who doubts himself, who doubts his own worth as clearly as Matthew Parkman.

Much like building a working theory, the whole endeavour requires small steps.

***

The first step, for obvious reasons, is simply touching.

Not in public, not in front of Molly -- and not where anyone but the two of them could see -- but casual touches in private. A hand grazing Matt's shoulder as he walks toward their bedroom to change after work; fingers brushing Matt's forearm as Mohinder passes him leaving the bathroom. Simple, easy gestures that make Matt's shoulders tense.

There's a sideways look -- a sharp, disbelieving glance -- that Matt gives him the first time. And the second. And many times after that.

As if he's wary of Mohinder's affectionate gestures, as if he's waiting for a fall. As if he's sure there's a joke going on and he's the punch line.

But Mohinder continues. He ignores the looks, the split second of tension, and each time the reaction is quicker, shorter.

Each time, that moment of doubt passes from Matt's face faster.

***

The second step is kissing. Mohinder likes kissing, likes luxuriating in the feel of another mouth pressed against his, another body warm and close.

Matt looks rather annoyed when Mohinder says, "I want to kiss you." He reaches out, lets his palm rest against the curve of Matt's jaw -- a flinch, but tiny, gone in nanoseconds -- and repeats, "For tonight, can we just kiss?"

Matt looks away. (Mohinder can see it because he's moved the bedside lamp to his side of the bed and keeps it on. Matt frowned the first time he switched the light on and said, brusque and defensive, "I don't think either of us is afraid of the dark." Mohinder replied, "Perhaps I want to see you," and Matt didn't say anything more.) Lying on his side, Matt shrugs, one broad shoulder moving up and down.

This is another thing Mohinder's noticed: Matt's aversion to speaking in bed. It seems that Matt's ideal is no lights, no speech, and no personal connections of any kind.

Mohinder refuses to give in to it. "So can we?"

"If you want," Matt mutters, not meeting his eyes.

Using the hand on Matt's cheek, Mohinder pulls him forward, pulls him closer. He starts softly: a gentle kiss on Matt's lips, ignores the way Matt tenses and then kisses him again.

After the third chaste kiss, Matt relaxes. He leans forward -- only a fraction of an inch, but enough -- and lets his mouth fall open, kissing back.

Soft lips and soft suction, kisses still shallow, but Mohinder's hard already. He can't help it. It's impossible to kiss Matt and not think of that mouth elsewhere, not think of that tongue curling around the tip of his cock, sliding lower as Matt wraps his lips around and down.

Mohinder hears his own groan, his hand tight on Matt's bicep, and tries to pull back. Tries to keep himself under control, to keep this careful and slow. It doesn't help that Matt reaches down, large hand cupping his erection and says, "Let me help with that."

Mohinder should say no. Should tell him to stop. Should stand firm to the idea of spending a few nights kissing Matt, smoothing away the fears until he's comfortable being kissed and kissing in return. He should, but Matt's already wriggling down the bed and pulling Mohinder's sweats down.

Mohinder manages a breath, the words on his tongue, but Matt lowers his head, sucks his cock down deep, and the breath gushes out of his lungs in a huff.

Mohinder is a man of good intentions, but he's not a saint. And Matt's moving his head, dragging his lips over Mohinder's length slowly, gently, teasing out the sensation. He starts moving his tongue and Mohinder feels his eyes roll back in his head. He reaches down for Matt's shoulders and clings for dear life.

***

Mohinder is persistent. His father would have called him stubborn and obstinate, but it means the same thing: he doesn't give up easily. So he tries the second step again.

He lasts longer -- nearly ten minutes of kissing Matt -- and it's going well. They're lying on their sides, barely touching, apart from one hand on Matt's chest. Mohinder's palm is flat on warm cotton, while his thumb brushes the skin over Matt's collarbone, and the kisses are warm and relaxed. Matt's comfortable enough to open his mouth, to let Mohinder lick inside and slide his tongue past Matt's sharp teeth.

Matt makes a small sound, a small 'Mmmm' into the kiss, and it's so hot Mohinder's clenching his hand into a fist, digging nails into his palm in an attempt to keep himself under control, to keep this calm and measured. To keep the kiss unhurried.

But Matt pulls back and says, "Please," like he's desperate, like Mohinder is everything he wants and then he's moving down the bed, fast and a little clumsy. But his mouth is sure and confident on Mohinder's cock.

It might be Mohinder's imagination, but he swears that Matt makes that noise again, that quiet, aroused moan. Mohinder reaches down, cards a hand through Matt's hair, and tells himself he'll try again tomorrow night.

He'll do better tomorrow night, he promises himself, spreading his legs wider and shifting his hips beneath Matt's weight. Matt moves one hand up Mohinder's left thigh, brushing feather-light touches against his balls; the other hand… Mohinder can guess what Matt's doing with the other hand, can feel the mattress shudder as Matt strokes himself.

Part of him -- the part of him that isn't insanely aroused by this, by the way that Matt clearly loves taking him in his mouth and swallowing as he comes -- thinks about pulling Matt up, replacing Matt's hand with his. Then Matt changes his angle, pressing his tongue hard and flat against the sensitive underside of Mohinder's cock and Mohinder's brain shuts down.

It comes back online sometime afterwards, as Matt flops down beside him. Mohinder reaches out, connects with Matt's shoulder on the second try, and pulls him into a lazy, satisfied kiss. Matt lets him, barely pauses as their lips make contact, so Mohinder figures he's still doing some good.

Matt pulls away and gets settled on the pillow. A moment later he's snoring, dead to the world, and Mohinder takes a moment to wonder about his sanity. There is an extremely attractive man sharing his bed, who would happily spend every night with his mouth wrapped around Mohinder's cock, and Mohinder's trying to change that behaviour?

He must have lost his mind.

***

The next night, he comes home late. He's tired and bleary-eyed, drained from staring at spreadsheets of data all day. He brushes past Matt in the kitchen -- wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around Matt's waist, bury his head against one strong shoulder and hide from the rest of the world for a decade or so -- but Matt steps aside quickly.

Mohinder reaches out, catches Matt's elbow, but Matt jerks away from him.

"Mohinder!" Matt hisses. "Molly could wake up."

"So?"

Matt glares at him. "She could get the wrong idea about us."

"Like the idea that I'm very tired," Mohinder says, puzzled and too exhausted to be anything but wryly amused at this nonsense, "or the idea that I'm falling in love with you."

"Don't--" Matt says loudly, glancing at Molly's door. He lowers his voice. "Don't say stuff like that."

It takes Mohinder a moment to see how serious Matt is. Beneath the bluster and the rough annoyance, there's a glimmer of genuine fear. "Matthew--"

"Don't complicate things," Matt interrupts, ducking his head low enough that Mohinder can't see his eyes. "I'm not saying that this isn't, you know, something. But it doesn't have to be-- I'm not asking for anything big."

Then Matt shrugs, like it doesn't mean much. Like maybe this is Mohinder's idea of a joke, but Matt doesn't quite get it. "I mean," Matt continues, meeting Mohinder's gaze with a self-deprecating grin, "you don't have to lay it on that thick. Relationship, sure, but that doesn't mean..."

"Doesn't mean I have to care?" Mohinder asks sharply, too aware he's on unstable ground. He's not angry at Matt, per se; he's angry at the assumption that it would be an inconvenience, that it would be too much bother, to care about Matt. He's frustrated that Matt does this so easily, so naturally, that it's clearly an old habit, learned long ago and never corrected.

"I'd like you to give a damn if I lived or died," Matt jokes, "but I'm not expecting you to get my name tattooed anywhere."

Mohinder bites his tongue. It stops him from saying that Matt's expectations are so low a snake could slither over them. Venting his frustration wouldn't serve any purpose.

***

He manages to hold his temper back, keeps the harsh and thoughtless words unspoken, but the anger's still there when they go to bed. His limbs feel stiff with it, arms and legs tense. He shifts on the bed, trying to get comfortable.

"Are you tired?" Matt asks softly.

Lying still, flat on his back, sleep is the furthest thing from Mohinder's mind. "I thought I was, but..." He lets the sentence hang in the air.

"Good," Matt says, reaching a hand to Mohinder's waist as he shuffles down the bed.

"Don't," Mohinder growls, catching Matt's wrist and pulling it away from him. He's angry and frustrated and he doesn't want another reminder of the way Matt can be so close, yet keep himself so distanced.

There's a pause that Mohinder counts in heartbeats -- two of Matt's, pulsing under the fine skin of his wrist, under Mohinder's fingers -- then Matt says, "Sure," and moves back to his side of the bed. He stretches out and adds, "Night."

Like that's all he is. Like sex is just a convenience whenever Mohinder wants it. Like it doesn't matter that Mohinder is seething, that he wants to grab Matt's shoulders and shake some sense into him, it doesn't need to be discussed, it's not worth fixing.

Before he's thought about it, Mohinder's got one hand on Matt's shoulder, pulling him back, pushing him flat against the mattress. Matt squawks out, "Hey!" and tries to sit up, but Mohinder moves fast, pins him down with bodyweight and gets Matt's hands above his head.

Lying on top of him, Mohinder takes a deep breath, then another, but doesn't know what to say.

"Mohinder?" Matt asks quietly. "What's going on?"

He sounds calm, sounds controlled. While Mohinder wants so much that he doesn't know where to start, Matt lies waiting, body loose and slack beneath him. If he wanted to, Mohinder's pretty sure Matt could fight him off. He could twist and use his bulk, use the strength that Mohinder gets to see but never gets to feel, and push Mohinder away. But he doesn't.

He just lies there. And waits.

Hands tightening on Matt's wrist, Mohinder wonders if there's anything he could do that would make Matt fight for control, if there's anything that Matt wouldn't accept and allow. He's sick of coaxing and leading Matt; sick of the temptation to bend Matt over the end of bed, tell him, "I'm going to fuck you," and the sinking suspicion that Matt would agree, would allow it, would let it happen even if he didn't want it. Even if he didn't enjoy it, Mohinder's sure it would take the minimum of pressure to make Matt do it again and again.

What really churns Mohinder's stomach is the fact that he's tempted at all.

"Maybe if you tell me what you want here," Matt says, and Mohinder's glad he left the lamp on. Otherwise he wouldn't see the slightly nervous look in Matt's eyes, the friendly smile pasted over it. "Maybe we could do something about it."

"What I want," Mohinder says but that can't be his voice: it's too low, too gruff, "is to know that you want more than crumbs. What I want is for you to ask, to demand, to desire something here. What I want is for you to stop acting like you deserve to be treated like this, like the only way you can have anything is to ask for nothing."

Matt looks stunned, that familiar fear back in his eyes. "Maybe that's all I want."

"Fumbling in the dark? Nothing acknowledged? Don't let Molly know because you don't want her thinking this is what love means?"

"I'm trying to make it easy on you," Matt says, voice small and choked. "In a year's time when you've found someone more like you, you want Molly asking why it didn't work out? You want to explain that crap to a kid?"

"More like me? What does that mean?"

"You know what I mean. Better than--" Matt's three inches below him but he looks away, avoids eye contact. "Someone who can offer you more than just… convenience."

"You could offer me more," Mohinder bites back, hands tightening around Matt's wrists until he looks up again. "If you would stop hiding, if you would stop judging me by someone else's bad behaviour, by someone else's betrayal."

Then he kisses Matt, hard and punishing. Matt's taken by surprise, mouth half open, and Mohinder shoves his tongue deep inside, sliding up against the roof of Matt's mouth. He shifts his weight to one arm, steadies his other hand flat on the mattress, wrist brushing against Matt's ribcage, and doesn't stop kissing. Doesn't stop taking what he wants.

Then he realises that Matt's tongue is sliding against his, tasting and exploring, not pushing him back but curving around his, asking for more. Matt is squirming beneath him, but he hasn't pulled his hands back. He's not twisting, not trying to get free of Mohinder's weight. He's just shifting, moving his hips against Mohinder's as they kiss.

Keeping his lips glued to Matt's, Mohinder rearranges himself, pulls his hands away from Matt's wrists, plants his forearm flat on the bed. He moves his knees, gets one thigh between Matt's legs. Matt's so involved in the kiss -- sucking on Mohinder's tongue like it's his last breath of air -- that his thighs part easily, naturally.

Mohinder pulls back -- barely an inch, needing to breathe -- but Matt lifts his head from the pillow, following his mouth. Matt kisses him, desperately earnest, making that quiet moaning noise in the back of his throat.

Against his leg, Matt's hard. He's rocking and bucking under Mohinder, urgent and uncoordinated, no real rhythm, working his constrained erection against Mohinder's thigh. He's gasping around the kisses, catching Mohinder's lip between his teeth, sucking and then sliding his tongue against Mohinder's, and it's breathtaking. It's incredible.

But it's not the most arousing thing. There are hands -- wide hands, strong hands -- sliding over Mohinder's shoulders, moving down his back. Matt's hands are big and hot, and Mohinder's fantasised about them and how they'd feel on his skin, but he hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected that jolt of excitement when they clench, fingers digging into his skin, short nails biting through the cotton of his t-shirt. Hadn't anticipated how they'd feel sliding under his sweats, cupping his ass, one hand spanning each cheek and pulling him down, pulling him closer, pressing his cock against Matt's hip, making him arch his back and gasp for air.

Then they're gone.

"Sorry," Matt mutters, going still beneath him, holding himself as lifeless as a statue. He presses those wide hands flat against the sheet and looks contrite in the soft lamplight.

Mohinder wants to kiss him. Wants to have Matt squirming and grasping and moaning into his mouth. But more than that, he wants Matt to stop looking so upset, so angry at himself, so scared that he's ruined this. If he has to choose between the two, he'd rather have Matt smile. "Are you apologising for touching me?"

"I didn't mean to," Matt says quickly. His lips are red and shiny, wet and swollen from kissing. He's flushed, colour high on his cheeks and a few strands of damp hair cling to his forehead. But he looks miserable. "I got carried away."

"Don't apologise." He kisses Matt softly, gently, on the lips. "Have I ever asked you not to touch me?"

"No," Matt says, blinking. "But--"

Guessing that he has to state the obvious -- guessing that whichever men Matt has slept with in the past have taught him to assume that unless he's asked, unless he's directly instructed, any form of touching is unacceptable -- Mohinder says carefully, "I want you to touch me. I want you to kiss me. I want to know that this feels good for you, that you want this as much as I do."

Caught on the spot, unsure of what to do, Matt always goes back to what he knows. Leaning up close to Mohinder's ear, he says, "Why don't you roll over and let me--"

"No." Mohinder tries to soften it with a hand grazing along Matt's jaw. "Please, Matthew. Let me touch you."

It's not precisely a question and Mohinder doesn't wait for an answer before he slides his hand down Matt's chest. Just one hand slowly tugging up his t-shirt, gathering up the fabric and then smoothing his fingers down Matt's skin. He gets to Matt's stomach, brushes the trail of hair leading under his boxers before Matt stops him with a hand on his arm.

"You don't have to," Matt says and Mohinder laughs. From Matt's surprised expression, that's the last thing he expected.

"Of course I don't have to. But I want to. I really, really want to." Keeping his hand where it is, Mohinder leans down and kisses Matt. He means for it to be reassuring and comforting, but Matt opens his mouth, presses his tongue against Mohinder's lips and the kiss shifts out of his control. It gets wet and deep, and then one of Matt's hands is stretched around the back of his neck.

Mohinder takes that as a yes, and slides his hand under Matt's underwear. He skims his fingers over smooth and surprisingly straight pubic hair, and brushes his fingertips over Matt's cock. He's hard, straining against the material, confined and warm under Mohinder's touch. He glides his fingers up, lightly, trying to imagine, to picture Matt's cock by feel alone and Matt groans, smothers the sound against Mohinder's mouth.

He curves his thumb over the crown, spreading the moisture around the tip, and Matt's groan becomes a gasp, a sudden influx of cool air around Mohinder's tongue. Pressing Matt down, trapping him with a kiss, Mohinder curls his hand around Matt's cock and starts to stroke. Slow, the way he likes it on himself.

He likes the way it fits into his hand, just wide enough against his palm, hot and throbbingly alive against his fingers, and he can't help wondering how this would look: his hand wrapped around Matt's cock, the colour of Matt's pale skin flushed with blood and desire.

For a moment, he's tempted to look. To roll off Matt and push his boxers out of the way, to see Matt's hips flexing, thrusting through Mohinder's fist, to see the contrast of white thighs, dark hair and red cock. But when he pulls back, Matt's hand grips his shoulder.

"Please," Matt says, sounding broken, sounding cracked, "please don't stop."

So Mohinder drops his head to Matt's shoulder, buries his mouth against Matt's neck and sucks kisses into the skin there, curls his hand a little tighter and holds on until Matt comes with a strangled grunt.

After, Matt lies there with his eyes closed and his lips slack. He's debauched and dishevelled, completely unaware of how good he looks collapsed across the sheet, breathing heavily. Mohinder presses a kiss to the flushed cheeks, the open mouth, the smooth forehead.

The last one makes Matt open his eyes and say, "Oh." It's not the word itself, but the amazed tone of voice that makes Mohinder grin. Matt looks sleepy, eyes at half-mast, but he blinks and gets a hand on Mohinder's hip and asks, "Should I…?"

"Go to sleep," Mohinder tells him, settling beside him. "There'll be other nights."

***

Mohinder wakes up the next morning as Matt rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. Usually, Matt's priority is coffee and Mohinder claims the first shower and it's just different enough to start Mohinder worrying. It's not that he's terribly concerned but...

But.

There is a part of him -- a very small part -- that wonders if he was too rash, too determined. If he pushed for too much too fast. It's a doubt that persists until Matt returns from the shower in sweats and a hastily pulled-on business shirt.

Mohinder can't help smiling at the sight. "New fashion statement?"

"Something like that," Matt says, pulling clothes out of the closet and managing not to look in Mohinder's general direction.

Mohinder keeps his voice soft, his tone reassuring. "Matthew?"

"Can we just," Matt says, pulling out pants and a jacket, "table this for now?"

"Table?"

"Like time-out? Deal with it later," Matt explains, one hand hovering over tie choices. "It's morning and Molly and school, and I was married long enough to know that tone of voice means we need to talk and there is no way--"

It only takes a hand on Matt's arm to stop him, to startle him into silence. "Are you okay?"

There's a quick succession of expressions, flashes of surprise and confusion, aimed at the row of ties. Then Matt takes a breath. "Maybe. I'm kind of freaking out, but not in a big way, just-- Maybe."

Mohinder nearly laughs. "That sounds very definitive," he says, and Matt snorts in amusement.

"That's me: always certain," Matt jokes, looking at Mohinder like he's an unexpected surprise. "This whole thing is... weird but it doesn't feel weird, and I'm kind of freaking out that I'm not freaking out more. Which makes no sense at all, I know."

Mohinder doesn't know what to say to that, so he nods and hopes it helps. He removes his hand and steps back, leaves Matt to get dressed while he goes for a shower. He keeps it quick since one of them will have to drag Molly out of bed soon.

By the time Mohinder returns to the bedroom, with a towel wrapped around his waist, Matt's almost dressed. He's standing in front of the small mirror hung beside the closet, tugging impatiently at his tie. "How come ties are so easy to tie when you don't think about, and impossible once you start concentrating?"

"I could..." Mohinder offers, stepping closer.

"Please!" Matt pulls the tie free and then waits for Mohinder to help.

Mohinder ties it from behind, with his arms looped around Matt's shoulders. It's the only way he can do a tie (trying to tie it standing in front of Matt wouldn't work. He knows because he's tried: it's like trying to write with his left hand, all the actions are twisted and strange) and Matt allows the intimacy of the stance without complaint.

Mohinder edges closer, pulling the tie through and down, and for a moment Matt leans back against him. "The danger of over-thinking," Mohinder says, more to distract himself than anything else, "is that it makes the easiest tasks difficult. Things that come naturally to us when we allow muscle memory to let it happen are impossibly hard to understand intellectually."

"That sounds suspiciously like a scientific parable."

Mohinder looks up. Even his reflection looks surprised. "I didn't mean--" he starts, although possibly he did.

He backs up -- wanting to give Matt physical space -- but Matt turns and surprises him with a sudden kiss. It's barely a kiss, more of a peck, a quick press of Matt's lips against his, but it still makes Mohinder gasp. Makes Mohinder lick his lips and think -- only for a moment, because they're parents and they have a responsibility to get Molly to school before class starts -- about pushing Matt against the wall and kissing him deep and dirty until he makes Matt moan.

Mohinder blinks and brings himself back to reality where Molly is still asleep in the next room. They don't have time to each have another shower this morning, let alone do anything else. Although...

"I'd better haul Molly out of bed," Matt says, and Mohinder wonders how much his expression gave away.

***

It's a busy day at the lab and Mohinder works hours later than intended. He lets himself into a quiet, dark apartment, picks his way across the floor and opens the bedroom door quietly. Disappointingly, it's dark as well.

Mohinder shed his clothes as quickly as he can, leaving them in a pile on the floor. (He'll deal with it in the morning.) It's too much bother to find something to sleep in, so instead he strips to down to underwear and creeps across to the bed.

The careful undressing is pointless because as soon as he's in bed, Matt stirs and mumbles sleepily. "Hey. Bad day?"

"Not bad." Mohinder settles down on the mattress and pulls the covers up to his shoulders. "But long. A lot longer than I'd planned."

Rolling to his side, Matt sounds more awake. "What were your plans?"

"An early night," Mohinder replies, debating how much he should say. If he should let Matt know that as he sat bored and watched the centrifuge spin, he thought of Matt's hands, Matt's mouth. He doesn't want to make Matt uncomfortable, not if he can avoid it.

"Yeah?" There's a pause, then Matt rolls closer in the darkness. He reaches out an arm -- Mohinder can tell from the way the covers lift -- but his hand hovers and doesn't make contact.

Turning his head, Mohinder presses a kiss to the soft crease between thumb and forefinger. Under that slight pressure, Matt drops his palm to Mohinder's shoulder. "Well, early to bed," Mohinder amends, then he sucks an open-mouthed kiss to the bone of Matt's wrist. Curling a hand around Matt's forearm, he drags his mouth along Matt's skin. When he catches Matt's inner wrist with his teeth, Matt stutters out a gasp.

"Maybe," Matt says, breath catching on the word, "a repeat of last night?"

Mohinder slides a hand up Matt's arm to find his cheek. He can feel the heat of Matt's blush, the nervous tension in his shoulders; can see, even in this room full of shadows, how new and frightening this is to Matt. "A repeat performance," Mohinder agrees, "perhaps with a few improvisations."

"Sounds..." Matt says, but Mohinder swallows the rest of his reply in a kiss.


End file.
